


Not Quite, Something Like

by lothlaer



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Haircuts, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Slice of Life, Something Something Gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothlaer/pseuds/lothlaer
Summary: Her hair’s gotten long again. A little past her shoulders, at least, and messy.She grips her little blade tight in a strong fist, gaze to the ground. There’s mud up her trousers, filth under her nails, and her bottom lip’s red and swollen on one side where she’s torn through the flesh with her teeth. She heaves in a great breath, shoulders tensing up closer to her ears, and sighs it out. Her hand drops with it.The blade – silver and scratched – turned towards herself. The leather hilt offered out and forward, a gift of trust.Yennefer takes it slowly.-A haircut.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Not Quite, Something Like

Her hair’s gotten long again. A little past her shoulders, at least, and messy.

She grips her little blade tight in a strong fist, gaze to the ground. There’s mud up her trousers, filth under her nails, and her bottom lip’s red and swollen on one side where she’s torn through the flesh with her teeth. She heaves in a great breath, shoulders tensing up closer to her ears, and sighs it out. Her hand drops with it.

The blade – silver and scratched – turned towards herself. The leather hilt offered out and forward, a gift of trust.

Yennefer takes it slowly. The metal slips from Ciri’s grip, sliding dangerously across the meat of her palm as she uneasily lets it go. She looks up from the forest floor, eyes glacier-sharp, eyebrows tight.

“Neater than Geralt,” she says – demands. “And no magic.”

Yennefer forces her own gaze to soften in reply.

“No magic,” she agrees, swallowing the sparks on her tongue.

Ciri nods, short, and turns away to sit at the sorceresses’ feet. Yennefer adjusts her position on the felled tree, spreading her knees, making room for the child to sit in the empty space between them. 

She lifts the white-gold locks up, lets them fall as far as they’ll reach down Ciri’s back. There are matted parts stuck with grime and tangled from lack of brushing that Yennefer has to wrench her fingers through. She can hear the child’s sharp breaths, but a little pain can’t be helped. It takes a few minutes to clear the worst of them, each pull tugging on her scalp, Yennefer’s method not unkind but not quite gentle either.

She works out how she’s going to do it – starting from the outsides, working in. She takes up a section from the left, stretches it tight. Ciri’s head bobs backwards with it.

“You have to pull against me or it will hurt,” Yennefer says sharply, pressing Ciri’s head back upright with her other hand.

She does as she’s told – though with a great sigh.

“Don’t huff,” Yennefer scolds, softer, as she positions the blade tight under the section of hair and in one motion slices clean through.

Ciri inhales, almost a gasp.

Yennefer takes a section from the other side, the same size, and cuts it, swift. The pale locks fall to the ground, a stark contrast against the green and brown earth. She wonders if the birds will find them and take them to line their nests.

She works her way across quickly, making sure each side is as even as she can get it and suppressing the urge to fix it all with magic, her focus solely on her task and not the child. It’s only when she’s done, white filigree spread across her black skirts, that Yennefer notices Ciri’s shortened breaths.

She’s not crying, but holds the air high in her lungs in tension.

Yennefer puts the dagger down at her side. She reaches out and brushes through what remains, softening her touch.

“There,” she states, attempting to soothe.

Ciri’s breathing eases, shoulders slumping a fraction. She raises a hand to her head and feels her way across the shape of her new haircut, twists locks between her fingers as she goes. Sighing – whether with relief or upset, Yennefer doesn’t know – she lets her hands fall back to her lap. Yennefer sees her begin to move and spreads her knee a little wider.

Ciri leans back, closes the space between them, fills the gap. Staring up, she rests her head heavy against Yennefer’s belly. It connects deeper, her warmth digging past the layers of skin to the other empty space within. It aches. Yennefer looks down at her.

“It will grow back.”

Ciri’s eyes close. “I wish it wouldn’t.”

“I can stop it—“

“No,” Ciri interrupts, smears a muddy thumb across the wetness on her cheek. “I like you cutting it.”

Yennefer runs her fingers through it, shorn hairs sticking to her palms or drifting off with the breeze. She strokes over Ciri’s head, pushes the fine hairs at the front away from her forehead, switches to using the backs of her bent fingers.

Ciri’s gaze shifts to the gentle swaying of the trees, or somewhere further Yennefer can’t see.

“Mother’s hair was very long,” she says, and gives no more.

Yennefer listens to the patter of the leaves, soft like rain.

Ciri’s eyes come back to her after a while. She juts out her chin, blows upwards to dislodge a stray hair off her nose. Yennefer catches a glimpse of sharp white behind her bitten lip.

Ciri sits up again, shaking her head to let the locks fall more naturally.

“How does it look?” she asks, something flinty and wild in her expression.

Yennefer’s smile stretches slow across her lips. “Shorter than it was.”

Ciri huffs, mustering an unimpressed look. “Better than it was?”

Yennefer considers it. The neat slices, the way it frames her growing face. The pale shock of colour, or rather its lack of. The dirt and grease that’s still twisted into it. A little wave that sits neat against the cut of her jaw. The length – it’s shorter than Geralt’s now.

“Does it feel better?” she asks, trying hard not to get this wrong.

Ciri shakes her head from side to side again, rough and fast, testing the weight. “Yes.”

Yennefer looks at her, brings her knees back together. She picks up the dagger, turns it around. Lets the metal slide across her palm as she hands it back to its owner, remembers blood all over. “That’s what matters.”

The locks of white hair on the ground look like sacrifices. Ciri’s smile is sharp-toothed – she looks wilder, older, changed.

Something like a girl.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. But come say hello on [tumblr](https://lothlaer.tumblr.com/) <3


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